


Seven Bowls of Tea

by the_cloud_whisperer



Series: Cloud's Zukaang Fics [13]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dreams and Nightmares, Haunting, M/M, Past Character Death, Resurrection, Spirit Zuko (Avatar), Supernatural Elements, Tea, falling in love with a ghost
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:21:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28043067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_cloud_whisperer/pseuds/the_cloud_whisperer
Summary: Aang wakes up in a world devastated by the Fire Nation's March of Civilization. Alone without anyone to guide him, he finds his way to a lonely town in the Fire Nation where no one recognizes him. Little does he know that he is about to meet his fate amid the shriveled leaves of an abandoned tea plantation where a wronged soul met an unjust end.WIP, planned 7 chapters.
Relationships: Aang/Zuko (Avatar)
Series: Cloud's Zukaang Fics [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1219487
Comments: 55
Kudos: 72





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Tang dynasty poet Lu Tong's [_Seven Bowls of Tea_](http://teaarts.blogspot.com/2011/02/lu-tongs-seven-bowls-of-tea-lutong-tang.html).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ:
> 
> Hello everyone! Here is my latest Zukaang AU: tea spirit!Zuko. It is angstier and darker than my usual writing, though admittedly, some parts of Avatar Zuko were very dark indeed. I've marked it as 'Creator Chose Not to Use Archive Warnings' for various reasons, but please note that one half of the main pairing is dead in the fic's present timeline. Whether or not things will stay that way remains to be seen. But this is not the kind of romance where death does them part: there will be a happy ending, against all odds. Please read the tags before proceeding! If you want more warnings / information on the premise before reading, see 'more notes' below for the end notes.
> 
> If you've read Avatar Zuko, you'll know that I enjoy including many references to Chinese history, language, and culture in my writing. In that series, I kept the references separate from the chapters in the interest of not cluttering up the end notes, but I think a lot of readers skipped the notes as a result and may not have gotten to appreciate the depth of my research. This fic won't be as intense a dive into Chinese culture, but I'll include some notes here and there. I'm experimenting with using in-text linked footnotes instead of freeform notes as in Avatar Zuko; you'll be able to navigate to the relevant footnote and then return conveniently to your place in the text. 
> 
> I tried to give some context to the names of places/OCs that I've made up, but if you see a name in the text that isn't explained, I probably recycled it from a drama I watched, and it's not intended to be significant. Not everyone gets to have a name and life laden with meaningful purpose, after all.

_Bzzz, bzzz._

Kirin startles awake as an unruly gadfly zips around his head.[1] Grumpy at his nap’s disruption, he reaches for his handy jug of rice wine, but his fingers brush empty air.

Ugh, that’s right. It’s been years, but sometimes he still forgets. He takes a mighty stretch, squinting against the late morning sun, and uncaps his waterskin for a drink instead.

Gone are the days when he could spend all day at the city gates with a jug of Du Kang’s finest to keep him company.[2] Sadly, the Fire Lord has done his research and concluded that pound for pound, wheat fills bellies more satisfactorily than rice, freeing up tonnage for more heavy artillery on his battleships. Over the past decade, every rice field in the jurisdiction of Zuodu and throughout the country has been converted to acres of golden grain.[3] Many other crops have been abandoned for wheat as well, never mind the fact that it’s less suited for growing this close to the equator.

Farmers make an honest living growing grain for the war, and the army buys it for a price they deem fair. In reality, it’s barely a living wage, worse in the years when the locusts are bad. But does the Fire Lord care? No, he only cares about supplying his military, feeding his interminable war with the grain and the steel and the lives of his nation’s sons.

Kirin is past the point of caring too. Right now, he only cares about the lamentable lack of alcohol. “To think that I’ve lived to see the day when rice and rice wine weren’t a constant of life,” he bellyaches to himself, peering beyond the walls inconsolably. “I’ll never see anything more improbable.”

The universe’s die have more in store for him, it seems. As he gazes past the scant refreshment stands and sundry vendors that set up shop outside the city gates, he notices a figure in the distance. Dressed in nondescript grey and leaning heavily on a staff, his stooped posture is at odds with his youthful, unlined face. He doesn’t seem to carry any goods for sale, nor any traveling supplies at all. He does sport a black bandanna wrapped around his head and unusually long sleeves that hide his hands entirely.

 _Hm. Not a farmer from a neighboring town, nor anyone with the court or the army._ Kirin puzzles it over. The shop tenders pause and watch as the man walks between them, too befuddled to call out to the weary traveler and advertise refreshment as they normally would to visitors.

“Name and business?” Kirin asks when the man finally draws within hailing distance.

“Yes, I… I recently lost my home—I’m looking for a place to stay in the city.” The man’s voice is soft and unsure, hesitating over his syllables. “My name is Aang.”

“That’s an unusual name,” Kirin remarks but immediately feels bad. You don’t get to turn your nose up at what your parents gave you, and this man has probably experienced his unfair share of schoolyard bullying.

The man doesn’t take offense. “I’m not from around here,” he admits.

 _I couldn’t have guessed!_ Aloud and less sarcastically, Kirin advises, “I suppose you’d better register at the Zuodu city marshal’s office.” There’s something about the man’s haunted grey eyes that forestalls him from further ribbing. Just let him get on with his day, no matter how strange he seems. “Xiao Lai!”

One of the boys hawking wares and gawking openly for the past few minutes hurries over. “Xiao Lai, show this man to the marshal, why don’t you? It’s not as if anyone has coin to buy your useless waist tassels and trinkets.”

Aang looks confused as Xiao Lai ushers him away—what kind of a backwaters place does he hail from, that he doesn’t even know the regulations for transferring residences? Kirin goes back to the business of morosely considering why the rice wine is gone.[4]

“Where’s the Avatar when you need him?” he asks of his waterskin. “I’ll bet he could turn water into wine.”

* * *

Gao Sheng’s morning had been going swimmingly well—no crimes in town for the past week, looking at a promotion soon—when some idiot out of time had stumbled in. The man doesn’t know of the census established by the Fire Lord several years ago mandating all citizens to register with their local town authorities. He doesn’t seem to have heard of the requirement for travel papers, much less have them; gives vague answers about his origins (“far north of here”), and doesn’t know the date, to boot.

“I don’t know if you’re trying to be funny, but it’s the twentieth year of Ozai’s reign, not the sixteenth year of Azulon.” He crumples up the incorrectly dated paper, and his deputy hands the man a new form.

“Ah, my apologies. My mind was wandering elsewhere.” He excuses himself bashfully. “Well, if that’s all…?”

Gao Sheng fumes internally but manages to control his bureaucratic irritation. “Mister, if you have no intended place of residence nor relations in this town to vouch for you, then I hardly fathom the purpose of your registration at all. Where do you plan to go?”

The man clearly hasn’t thought about this— _tsk, youth these days, just floating about like vagabonds, expecting the sky to house them and the earth to feed them._

“Don’t know that there’s any housing available in town long-term.” Odd, the man hasn’t even explained what happened to his original hometown and family. There hasn’t been much local bandit activity lately.

“There’s always the house by the abandoned tea plantation,” his deputy suggests.

“Nonsense! Who’d want to live in that rundown place?

“Actually, that sounds quite fine,” Aang interjects quietly. “If you’d just point me in the right direction, I’d be much obliged.”

_Well, if that’s what it takes to dispatch him…_

* * *

“Bye-bye Mistress Onji!” “Goodbye!” “See you tomorrow!” “I won’t forget my homework this time!

The schoolyard rings with the joyous voices of children liberated from their studies to go play for the rest of the afternoon. Onji watches them leave before packing up her books and papers and preparing to head home. She hopes her father hasn’t tried to get a head start on making dinner. Ever since her mother passed, his mind has been ailing, and it’s less than advisable to leave him alone with the hearth fire.

She stops abruptly outside the schoolhouse doors at the sight of a man standing there alone. “Er… are you a parent?” That’s the only reason she can think of for someone to be waiting at the school. He’s certainly not there for her.

“No, actually, I’m more of a prospective student.” He clutches a staff in his hands nervously, unsure of himself. “I’m from the colonies, you see, and I’m afraid my schoolteachers were a bit lax in their history lessons. Having arrived now in my _homeland—_ ,” he seems to bite this out between gritted teeth, “I just thought I’d… try to apply myself diligently.”

She’s not sure what to make of this. The man, who’s about her age, is strangely sweet in his affect, a tightly wrapped bandana starting to come loose at the base of his neck as he fidgets with the knot, glancing at the ground and back at her in rapid succession.

“Well, the school typically enrolls students through age thirteen; after that, children help their families out with business and such,” she explains. “It would be most irregular to have an adult learner. Unless you were looking for individual tutelage?”

“Oh, no, I’m new in Zuodu,” he clarifies with haste, stumbling over the name. “I’ve no family or business, or any means of compensation just yet.”

“Not necessary at all.” She waves this off, thinking she may have an inkling as to where to steer this conversation. “I’d be happy to just have a chat with you, maybe tomorrow after school?” She does need to check on her father still.

“Alright,” he says, with some trepidation.

“Great, I’ll see you tomorrow…”

“Aang,” he supplies.

“Aang. I’m Onji.”

On the way home, she ponders this development. It could be premature of her, but her father’s debilitated condition hasn’t done wonders for their family’s savings, and she’s got her two younger brothers to think of. If she were marrying any respectable man in this town, he’d be lucky to get a handful of silver for her dowry. But Aang… well, beggars can’t be choosers. A girl has to do what a girl must.

* * *

He trudges wearily under the empty twilit sky, leaving the city of Zuodu and its anemic amber lights behind. Everything looks grey and dull through a filter of exhaustion, and all Aang wants to do is lie down and sleep.

 _Already?_ An insidious voice taunts him. _You just woke up from a decades-long nap, and look where things are now._

He doesn’t _have_ to live in the abandoned old house five miles out of town. Rui Jing, the keeper of the stables, had offered a room in exchange for hire as a stable hand, but Aang feels odd about staying in such a place. It’s as if the city walls are a trap closing in around him, stifling and suffocating. No, he’d rather roam free under the open air.

The house is nestled at the bottom of a modest hill, its shallow slopes covered in tangled vegetation. The marshal mentioned that whoever lived here previously had been quite the tea enthusiast. Aang stands for a moment before the darkened house, studying the untamed rows of tea bushes running wild, bare branches and curled leaves cracking from lack of care. A mirror of the world today, and of himself, he muses.

The door creaks open at a push, a few bamboo splinters falling out of the disused hinges. He enters, fanning away the dusty miasma that greets him. One wall has all but collapsed, and cobwebs span the corners with abandon. A couple raised steps lead into a second room in slightly better repair. The whole house boasts a few articles of furniture, all thoroughly coated in dust.

Going through some drawers yields spark rocks and candles, so at least he can better see his surroundings. A quick tour of the pantry turns up a couple bags of flour already chewed through by rats; nothing edible, unsurprisingly. Everything seems largely undisturbed by humans, though Aang keeps getting an eerie sense that he’s not alone. He surveys the shadows, peers out the windows—nothing. It’s just his nerves.

A sudden wind rustles the thatched roof, and he jumps as something rattles to the ground, fallen from the table.

That’s odd. It’s a bamboo scroll, thick and heavy; he doesn’t think he would have failed to notice it on his initial scan of the premises. He unravels it slowly, wooden slats clacking as he goes. _The Classic of Tea,_ it’s titled.[5] It seems to be a treatise, written in a steady, neat hand, that deals with all manner of tea planting, harvesting, processing, and preparation. He sets it down at length, characters blurring together as his eyes water from renewed fatigue. Best to sleep it off and start fresh in the morning.

He lies down on the fortunately intact sleep pallet and falls asleep within minutes, forgetting to douse the candle. Thus, he misses how deliberately the wind blows it out, without ruffling anything else or disturbing his repose at all.

_Sleep well._

* * *

_The Southern Air Temple is not the one he remembers from his childhood. Much of the central structure is missing, the bare mountainside gaping open to the clouds. It’s much more tiring scaling its heights on foot than it is by sky bison, but Appa is as absent as the rest of his comrades. The plants are untended, some wilting and leafless, stark branches like skeletons against the sky._

_He remembers the last battle, smoke congesting the air so they could not breathe, no matter how they tried to bend it away. The comet paints the sky vermilion and smoky at midday. It would be beautiful under other circumstances; here, though, it sounds their death knell._

_They cannot prevail. The fire is hot enough to melt flesh from bones, but the heat does not torment Aang so much as the sound: the roaring rush of fire blasts, compressed air rattling his eardrums, knocking him to the ground. He rises time and time again, and each time is like a century of warfare in the making. He gets up without tire, but more remain unmoving, the air sapped of sound, the blasts temporarily ruining his hearing. An unexpected moment of silence for the dead, then another, and another, multiplied without end until they stretch into eternity._

_Any hope of escape is dashed. Sozin has been preparing for this for a long time, it seems. He has harnessed the dragons, and between their serpentine cunning and his war machines, Aang realizes how dire their chances of escaping unscathed truly are. Figures fall from the sky unmanned, a gruesome meteor shower, without forecast. Aang prays that they’re already gone, that they won’t feel the devastating impact of sea level ten thousand feet below._

Pray? Is that all you can do? _He thinks to himself scornfully._ You’re the Avatar.

And? _A voice not his own interjects, smooth and unharried, so foreign to the apocalypse reigning outside his mind._

_And nothing. He falls, falls asleep, falls to his death, falls short of his people’s needs and expectations of the Avatar. Silence reigns amid the calamity, and he falls, and falls, and falls._

_There’s nothing for him here._

* * *

He wakes from dizzying dreams, mild light from the spring dawn bathing his face.

_Wait, I’m outside. I don’t remember going to sleep outside._

His sleepwalking self seems to have laid him down on a marginally softer and greener patch of earth than the surrounding area, which Aang appreciates. He stretches and yawns, then shudders through some vigorous stomach rumbles. That decides the order of business today.

The tea plantation covers about half this side of the hill, beyond which stretch vaster mountains and a thick forest. A few paces off the beaten path, he finds a small pond, where he refreshes himself and tries to apply his long-neglected skills of identifying edible flora. Some mushrooms look like they might fit the bill, but he’ll have to check with the locals.

It’s a sleepy day in town, early spring drenching the town in pollen and slumber. Rui Jing lets him work for his grub today, slouching on a bale of hay and whittling a smoking pipe as Aang feeds the animals and shovels manure.

“How’re you liking Zuodu so far, young man?” he drawls pleasantly, whittling away and spraying splinters of wood everywhere. Aang makes a note to sweep those up later. He’s nothing if not thorough. “I always say to the marshal, I say, ‘We should go and fix up that house by the tea field, it’s an eyesore.’ But he says to me, ‘Then just don’t be going up there where you’ve got no business, and your delicate little eyes won’t be sore.’”

“Uh huh.” Aang ties the top of the feed bag securely so that the animals won’t get at it. “Do you know anything about the person who used to live there? I haven’t been able to find out much.”

Instantly, Rui Jing looks more guarded, sitting up straighter and focusing on his woodwork, as if this will distract Aang. “Hm… well,” he hems and haws, “he was an honest young man. Came from a good family on the main island, but it sounds like he did something to offend someone.” At Aang’s confused look, he helpfully jabs a finger at the ceiling. “Someone high up,” he whispers conspiratorially.

Still not quite clear on how this is relevant, Aang nods nonetheless, hoping for more details.

“He seemed quite repentant, the poor boy. Used to work in a tea shop, and kept up a good field of tea crops even after most plantations were commandeered by the state for other purposes. Kept to himself, and who could blame him, shipped off to the middle-of-nowhere when he was born into so much more. But then…”

Here, Rui Jing pauses, the lull in his spiel rife with hidden meaning.

“And then?” Aang prompts him, but he shakes his head.

“No, I’d best not say too much about what happened.”

Now Aang’s really curious. What circumstances surrounding this man’s death were so taboo that Rui Jing won’t even speak of them?

“You’d have to ask Kirin—can’t guarantee he’ll say much either. Normally I’d advise you to loosen his tongue with some liquor, but ah, old Kirin. Liver like pickled cabbages! Only the best rice wine will make him talk, and there’s none to be found in the whole country nowadays.”

Interesting. Aang resolves to ask the gatekeeper more later.

* * *

“Are you listening, Aang?”

He glances back at her, eyes widening in alarm as he tries to make amends for his lack of attention. “Sorry, you were saying?”

“You could use a lesson from some of my students; their concentration skills far outstrip your own,” she admonishes mildly, but she’s smiling, leaning towards him across the table, her plate of spiced deep-fried radish cake quite forgotten.

…he hadn’t realized he’d agreed to an early dinner date with Onji under the pretext of learning Fire Nation history. Well, at least he gets a free meal. “I was distracted by a lush green beauty,” he lies, hoping to save face with her and avoid cutting his history lesson short.

“Oh, you rascal.” Aang would say they haven’t known each other long enough for her to say this so fondly. He doesn’t remember the girls at the Eastern Air Temple being so easy to charm.

His heart plummets when it hits him again, as it has multiple times during this conversation, necessitating Onji’s repeated interjections to draw him out of aggrieved reverie. There are no more nuns at the Eastern Air Temple to dazzle with his air scooter, nor brothers at his home in the Southern Air Temple, nor any Air Nomads at all in this wide, cheerless earth. If Onji is to be believed, the Water Tribes and many coastal towns of the Earth Kingdom have succumbed too. All because Aang couldn’t hold fast in the Fire Nation’s attack and instead spent seventy years comatose on the sea floor, unable to do anything in the Avatar state.

It must be true; he intuited as much when he awoke and returned to the Southern Air Temple only to find it barren, the structures blasted to pieces, the bones of his people scattered and sullied by ash and frost. A mausoleum, frozen in time, and he could not find it in himself to stay. He knew time must have passed, but he hadn’t known exactly how much until the marshal corrected his paltry attempt at guessing the date yesterday.

“Anyways, the rest is as you know it, I’m sure,” Onji continues. “Azulon passed suddenly from ill health twenty years ago, and his younger son Ozai became Fire Lord. He’s got two children, but a few years ago, I heard that the crown prince committed some grave offense. He was stripped of his title and banished to gods know where, so I guess he’s out of the picture.” She shrugs, unfazed by the sorry state of the nation’s politics.

* * *

As expected, Kirin was no help in clarifying the story of the house’s previous tenant. All he would say was that the man’s name was Lee, and he was banished for defamation and libel against a prominent public figure back in the capital. He’d refused to speak when Aang asked how he died, and instead shut the gate in his face, closing the city for the night. Another dead end.

“I mean, what’s the harm in telling me?” he grouses, sweeping the floor with a makeshift broom constructed out of twigs. He might as well fix things up around the house if he’s to stay here. “It won’t change the past, nor the future, most likely.”

He brushes away the cobwebs on the ceiling, sending apologies to the spiders who have now been displaced. What he wouldn’t give for some living creature to accompany him here, to save him from his own darkening thoughts. Sometimes, he wonders if everything he’s experienced since waking up alone in the sea was a dream. If everything from before that was a dream, and he’ll wake up safe and happy in the Southern Air Temple tomorrow.

He keeps talking out loud to make the silence less oppressive, pondering the mystery all the while. “I get the feeling that this guy, Lee, died unjustly. Everyone’s so tightlipped about how he died, as if they think someone’s listening in to make sure they don’t say the wrong thing. And if he were the town pariah, they wouldn’t have hesitated to retake this land after he died.

“Technically, as the Avatar, it’s my job to arbitrate unjust punishments and settle them in favor of the wronged party,” he considers. “But no one even knows I’m alive.”

 _Sometimes even I question my existence._ The fire in the hearth glows a little brighter as to verify that yes, you’re here, you’re alive.

(but to what end?)

He opens the door and guides his sweepings outside with the broom, pushing the debris towards the field and out of the way. It’s dark enough that he doesn’t notice an unevenness in the ground, and he trips, reflexes catching him lightly in a flutter of airbending before he hits the ground. Thank goodness no one’s around to see that.

Blindly, he feels out the contour of something buried in the ground and hazards a guess at the edge of a jar lid. It’s easy enough to liberate with a spot of earthbending—might as well break out all the forbidden arts while there’s no one to see him. He unties the twine securing a piece of cloth over the lid and pops it open.

It turns out to be a jug of rice wine, nicely aged, buried here long ago but never consumed. _Must’ve been before the transition away from rice crops_ , he reflects, recalling some of Onji’s extended didactics this afternoon. Well, this is unexpectedly helpful.

* * *

_He dreams of the battle again, of his solitary awakening, of his lonesome punishment, forced to walk alone, accompanied only by the forgotten dead amid a decaying temple. That cloying grief fills his heart, his stomach, his soul and body and mind, and the dream seems to last forever, until suddenly he looks up, no longer in his destroyed home. The stone under his hands is not the smooth, unlined grain of the temple’s construction, but rather cold marble raked with gridlines spanning several paces. He is indoors in an unfamiliar place, but the feeling of unbridled terror in his chest is the same, and so is the massive spout of flame delivered from a damning hand. He hears his voice escape his throat as the flame sears his face, agony incarnate, but something’s not right. The timbre of that pained cry is familiar, but it is not his own._

He has no time to illuminate these circumstances as the jolt of emotion and pain sits him bolt upright in bed, in the present but no less bleak and forsaken moment.

 _Whose voice was that? Why was I in their body?_ He wonders without answers at this whole dratted mess. He spends the rest of the night staring morosely at the ceiling, childishly peeved that he cannot even find peace in sleep.

* * *

The next day, he bends some water into a frozen ice blade and chops a morning’s worth of firewood, handily constructing a little sledge of bamboo stalks lashed together to haul it into town. A pretense at an honest occupation will deter any questions directed at him out of animosity, and Aang needs to avoid all the questions he can. It’s fortunate that he lives far from town, away from prying eyes that might witness him bending the elements.

Rui Jing frowns when Aang explains that he’s not coming to work for him anymore. “Ah, you volatile young people,” he despairs dramatically, affecting a wounded swoon from atop his bale of hay. “What do I need to do to keep you?”

Aang grins in spite of this teasing—it’s all in good sport. This place isn’t so awful. “Sadly, I need to move on. Some firewood to remember me by?”

He acquiesces. “Alright. A very _transient_ keepsake, to be sure.” Rui Jing inspects his purchase critically. “These are cut phenomenally smooth; mind telling me where you get your blades sharpened?”

“Eh…” _Monkey feathers, maybe I should invest in a sufficiently dull hatchet after this._

“Ohhh,” Rui Jing utters in understanding. “A tradesman never reveals his secrets. Fair enough.”

… crisis averted. After that, Aang makes his debut on a populous street corner stacked with small eateries and watches his pile of firewood dwindle. Word gets around about the perfectly stackable, smooth cords of firewood sold by the mysterious young man in a black bandanna. He eagerly awaits more sales unlike any self-respecting Air Nomad, not primarily because of the payout, but because then he’ll be free to go and get some answers for himself.

Finally, it’s done! He eats dinner without tasting his food and quickly finds his way to the gatehouse before dark.

“Kirin!”

“Not you again,” the man grumbles. “I told you, I don’t have any information for you. No one does.”

Aang uncovers last night’s fortuitous discovery, the jug of wine, hidden under a cloth on his wooden sledge. “Maybe this will help jog your memory?”

Kirin gives him a long, searching look, and finally capitulates. “What do you want to know?”

* * *

“He called himself Lee,” Kirin begins, swirling the wine around in a shallow bowl, still trying to give the impression of a lofty connoisseur and not something baser. “Came into town just under a decade ago. Couldn’t have been much older than my son is now, and he came of age last year. Had a huge, fresh burn wound over the left side of his face. Pretty sure he couldn’t see nor hear from that side, but you’d never guess it.”

Aang looks at his own bowl, hardly touched. He’ll have to maintain a clear head to make sense of Kirin’s increasing inebriation.

“He came with armed escorts from the capital city patrol, so everyone knew he must’ve offended someone high up. We were a bit leery at first, but he seemed nice enough. The guards left after a month when it was clear that he wasn’t going to try and make a break for it. The marshal was entrusted with keeping an eye on him, but there wasn’t anything _to_ do.

“Before he arrived, we used to have pretty frequent bandit attacks in the rural areas northeast of here. They’re technically under the town’s jurisdiction, but the marshal was stretched thin enough trying to keep crime down within the walls themselves. After Lee came along, there was talk of a masked figure fighting off attackers in those areas. They called him the Blue Spirit: he’d appear out of nowhere with his swords, dispatch all those no-gooders, and vanish without a trace.”

“Why would he hide his face if he was doing good?” Aang asks, puzzled.

Kirin shrugs, tossing back his bowl and pouring a third. “People are wary: they’ll misread good for bad and unknown for worse.”

Aang drinks too, unable to counter that with any sort of dignified response. What a world they’ve come to, if even good deeds can no longer be taken at face value.

“Lee lived in that house for almost three years. He planted those tea bushes and for several seasons, he harvested them and made quite a bounty. Last I heard, he was writing a book and deciding on a fancy name for his special line of tea leaves… I never tried them myself, but I’m told the flavor was quite transcendental. Said his uncle was a tea enthusiast before he passed, wanted to uphold his legacy, poor kid.”

 _… why do I feel like there’s about to be an abrupt plot twist for the worse?_ Aang thinks pessimistically. He refills Kirin’s bowl and polishes off his own. The gate is long since closed, though Kirin promises that he can let himself out once they’re finished.

“But one day, five years ago, an official and some soldiers from the capital came with a decree. Said someone had accused Lee of harboring Air Nomad fugitives in his house.”

The oiled paper of the gatehouse windows is patchy and peeling, and the wind squeezes through to ruffle the flames in the hearth fire. The dancing flames cast shadows over Kirin’s salt-and-pepper hair, and for a moment, he looks almost grotesque, like a fearsome masked figure sent to deliver punishment.

“This is what the marshal told me, because I was serving as the warden back when Lee was imprisoned. The officials said that Lee was actually the crown prince of the Fire Nation, who had been banished to this lonely town in the first place for defying his father in a war council. No one else knew.

“He was sentenced to death without a trial, and in any case, we never knew who snitched to the authorities. He didn’t have any enemies in town. ‘m sure Rui Jing told you plenty about him too. He was nice enough; seemed very like you, in fact. Uncertain origins, hard worker, lonely lifestyle…”

Grim candlelight dapples Kirin’s lined face as he leans closer to peer at Aang. “You sure you yourself don’t have something to hide?”

The man’s deep enough in his … fourth? Sixth? Who knows—to not remember most of this when he wakes. Aang brushes it off with a nervous laugh. “What was his name?”

* * *

Tonight, he stops at the entry to the house but doesn’t go in. The fields call to him, and he looks out over them as the one who lived here once must have done also.

“They killed you,” he says numbly. “Your own father—the Fire Lord—handed down the decree. You weren’t even permitted a headstone to mark your grave.”

He half expects the barren fields to open up and show him the remains of the innocent dead. But this isn’t a fairy tale. The wind rises around him, rustling the dry leaves into a sorrowful whisper. He can picture it now, his dreams merging with reality to form memories not his own.

_A calm spring day: a good day to die, or at least to be buried. Winter’s dry, hard ground makes for unconscionably shallow graves. Who knows how long he’ll stay buried, with unscrupulous wildlife looking for a meal?_

_No one witnesses his end except one official, wearing the square hat of the Department of Justice, and three soldiers who cast die to determine whose lot it is to wield the blade today. The marshal had ruled that none of the townspeople should be present, concerned about a riot. The general populace hasn’t been told of his true identity, as far as he knows. It’s too much of a disgrace to the royal family; better that the Fire Lord’s subjects think that the former crown prince died of mundane causes in exile, unworthy of mention._

_He kneels amiably, the guards too timid to use force with a royal prince despite his now humble circumstances. There is no one to make any fanfare for, so he savors the sunshine on his eyelids, the warm earth underneath, the unknowable bite of the blade as it severs head and body. The raw anguish and queasiness of a less-seasoned soldier, emptying his breakfast onto the ground. Squarehat lifts his shoes delicately as a gush of blood rushes past like a gully irrigating the parched tea plants. It’s blood, but water all the same, and they drink gratefully._

Aang blinks, and the world totters and spins around him. He knows he shouldn’t have matched Kirin drink for drink after the man divulged the grisly story to him. His feet guide him into the midst of the crops. It is impossible to know if he is standing on unhallowed ground.

“I’m sorry,” he says, the words woefully inadequate. “Kirin said that no one in town ever even saw any Air Nomads. That it might have been a false charge by your father to do away with you permanently.”

How could any father do that to his child? Aang thinks of Gyatso, the only father he’d ever known; of the temple that housed him and the monks who raised him. All dust now, all ashes, just like the bones that lie underfoot, uncherished, unmourned.

 _It’s too much,_ he thinks. All the grief and pain he’s felt since waking in an empty ocean, since fleeing the ghost town of the Southern Air Temple, knowing all his people to be dead… everything coalesces here and now in a damning passion, and he sinks to his knees in the dirt, then curls onto his side, borne down by an insufferable weight. The weight of thousands of souls, gone the instant the comet passed, and now this. His tears mix into the soil, salt and iron, sorrow and fear combining in the fertile ground.

He doesn’t make the conscious decision to pass out there under the cold night. It’s just easier not to move. He nestles into the divot his body forms against the earth, trying to get comfortable. If only this wind would stop wailing. It’s giving him a chill.

_Go to sleep._

“I am,” he crossly tells the voice in the wind. “Look, I’m lying down and everything.”

This does nothing to deter the persistent gusts of wind, seemingly targeted at his sleeping spot. It rages and rags at his clothes, growing still harsher.

_Go to sleep._

“Ugh, fine,” he grumbles. He gets up and stumbles back to the house, half-awake, and catches himself on the doorframe. “I’ll go to sleep, in bed, all nice and proper. Happy, Zuko?”

The wind dies down at last. After he falls asleep, a gentle murmur, quiet but amused, resounds through the house. _I’m never happy._

* * *

1  Kirin: the Japanese equivalent of Chinese qilin (麒麟), a mythical creature often mistranslated as unicorn or giraffe. It is said to have a single horn on its head, hooves, and scales, though many variations exist of what it's supposed to look like. It is a benevolent creature that appears when a righteous sovereign rules the land, or when an evil tyrant is about to be ousted. Read more [here](https://mythology.net/mythical-creatures/qilin/). I really only used Kirin instead of Qilin here because people panic when 'q' is not followed by a 'u' :) [return to text] 

2  Du Kang: 杜康，semi-legendary historical figure commonly known as the god of Wine. Read more [here](http://chinaknowledge.de/History/Myth/personsdukang.html). [return to text]

3  Zuodu: 左都，not a real place, as far as I know. I made this up based on the idea that the town Aang arrived in once served as an eastern capital of the Fire Nation, but the capital moved west to the caldera once Sozin took over, just as the capital of China has moved countless times over the dynasties. The name Zuodu means 'left capital', which sounds odd until you consider that ancient Chinese compasses pointed south (not sure why). Therefore, from the perspective of someone facing south, the east was the left and the west was the right. Thus, 'zuo' was used to refer to the east. [return to text] 

4  From Pirates of the Caribbean, courtesy of Captain Jack "Why-is-the-rum-gone?" Sparrow :D [return to text] 

5  The Classic of Tea: 茶經，a treatise written by Tang dynasty scholar Lu Yu (733-804), commonly known as the Tea Sage for his reverence for and methodical attention towards preparing and appreciating tea. Read more [here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Classic_of_Tea). [return to text] 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave a comment if you enjoyed this first bit. I don’t have anything definite planned beyond chapter two, but I have a pretty good track record with finishing my works, considering that I completed a nearly-500k series in 4 years. If you have any questions, comments, or concerns, I can be reached on Tumblr @the-cloud-whisperer.
> 
> Below are spoilers and warnings for this chapter, if you are reading the end notes before reading the chapter.
> 
> SPOILERS BELOW, BE WARNED.
> 
> Warnings: discussion of genocide; alcohol use; discussion of past character death; mildly graphic depiction of violence, blood, gore
> 
> Background information
> 
> In this universe, the Air Nomad genocide happens when Aang is 24. Sozin did a better job of keeping his world domination ambitions on the down low, so Aang isn't told he's the Avatar until he's 16. He still becomes an airbending master at 12, and he takes 8 years to master waterbending and earthbending. When he finishes earthbending, he takes a break and visits the Southern Air Temple, but just then, Sozin attacks the temples. The Air Nomads fight back, but the Fire armies (with the help of the comet) defeat them. On the verge of death, Aang triggers the Avatar state, which wipes out everyone within a one-mile radius of him and cocoons him into some kind of supernatural whirlpool at the bottom of the ocean, like the iceberg in canon. He and Appa are separated, and he stays in his Avatar state coma for 70 years.
> 
> Sozin dies 10 years later, and Azulon carries on his legacy, wiping out the Water Tribes and kidnapping waterbenders to make sure they don’t have the Avatar either. In 50 AG, Azulon dies the same way in canon (Lu Ten dies; Ozai kills his father to get the throne), and Ozai continues the war in the Earth Kingdom. In this universe, Iroh wasted away from grief after Lu Ten's death, and Ozai sends Zuko and Azula to war from an early age. They are each skilled in different ways and advance to commanders in their own right in their early 20s. However, Zuko becomes disillusioned with the war and sympathizes with the Earth Kingdom civilians, and one day back home in a war council, he speaks out against his father.
> 
> Zuko is burned in Agni Kai and exiled to a distant town. Circa 65 AG, Ozai receives word that Zuko was apprehended for harboring some fugitive airbenders who had survived the genocide. He orders Zuko's execution by beheading for treason and burial in an unmarked grave in his place of exile. He dies at age 25.
> 
> A few years later, Aang wakes and rises from the sea floor alone. He finds the world greatly changed, and full of despair, he wanders to a lonely town in the Fire Nation.
> 
> Timeline
> 
> 10 AG: Sozin dies; Azulon takes the throne.  
> 15 AG: Ozai is born.  
> 40 AG: Zuko and Azula are born.  
> 50 AG: Ozai seizes the throne.  
> 62 AG: Zuko Agni Kai and exile.  
> 65 AG: Zuko executed for treason.  
> 70 AG: Aang awakens.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aang makes tea and a new friend, and they are one and the same.

He starts reading _The Classic of Tea_ again, partly to distract himself from his misery and partly out of true curiosity about its author. What shreds and snippets of personality can he glean from between those neatly written lines?

The treatise begins with an appraisal of best horticultural practices for growing tea plants. Aang learns that they like a humid, moist climate with plenty of water and immediately despairs. The nearest large body of water is miles away, the Qiantang River that flows eastward for miles to the sea.[1] Most of the farms under Zuodu’s jurisdiction are clustered to the north and east of the town, nearer the river. He wonders how the plantation got watered in the past. Rui Jing had waxed eloquent to him numerous times during his one day of employ about the general climate and topography of the area. Rain is inconsistent, even in the summer, and farmers had to turn to complex irrigation schemes involving the rivers and lakes.

 _If I had Appa, I could pull up a giant bubble of water from miles away and fly back with it, water all the crops, fly back and get more,_ he thinks morosely.

_If I had Appa… if I had any of my friends and family from Before…_

Oh, bother. What’s the point of ruminating on what he doesn’t have? He abandons the scroll and listlessly wanders out of the house in search of something else to do.

He ends up taking a nap in the field, nestled among fallen brambles and rumpled tea leaves. The elders at the Southern Air Temple would be horrified. _Napping,_ when there is so much spiritual gain to be found in doing anything else—meditating, practicing bending, studying the ancient texts, and so forth. They’d all been scandalized by Gyatso’s more relaxed approach to his education, which allowed time for playing games, reading for pleasure, cooking, food for the soul, and so forth.

 _Did it make a difference, in the end?_ His dour dream-mentality invades his nightly excursion, and Gyatso’s peaceful expression dissipates into smoke as he reaches for his mentor, only to fall short. _In the end, everything I touch dies._

 _Not this time,_ a different voice reproves. _You haven’t started: how can you know you will fail?_

The hazy dreamscape around him separates to reveal himself standing in the field, as if awake, gazing upon countless rows of skeletal tea plants, starved of water and care. _Where do I even start?_

The voice calls to him, and it sounds like the sweet murmur of fresh water somewhere nearby. _Don’t be afraid. Follow me._

It does not occur to him to disobey. Sluggishly, with the drugged feet of the half-dreaming, half-waking, he trudges towards the apex of the hill, a molehill in the shadow of a greater, forested knoll beyond it. He reaches the edge of the terraced rows of tea plants, but the voice guides him farther into the wooded areas, and then bids him stop.

_What do you feel?_

“Lost, mostly,” he remarks, awake enough now to summon sarcasm. “What am I supposed to be feeling?”

_Use all your senses. What do you feel?_

He lets his consciousness seek out the environment, closing his eyes and probing his surroundings. He should do this more often, per the monks’ teachings: after all, how is he to find peace within himself if he cannot even find peace in the world around him? He slips into a meditative moment and relaxes, and deep within him, he senses a pool of chi, placid and stagnant, hidden away from his consciousness.

Aang blinks his eyes open. The pool isn’t within him, but deep under his feet. He gives himself over completely to his waterbending sense, working the unseen water from above. It’s a sizable pool, enough to have supplied the entire tea plantation in days gone by. Combining his earthbending and waterbending, he pushes and pulls, the thrill of hidden treasures spurring him on until with a splash, the ground yields and a mighty spigot of water issues forth, drenching Aang in a joyous patina of mud.

 _Longjing,_ the voice intones, seeming to blossom from the fine spray of water and the bubble of the underground spring, newly unearthed. _The ancient Dragon Well of old—I discovered it in the early days of my confinement here. Legend has it that a dragon blessed this water long ago to always run pure and fresh._[2]

He peers down into the spring, its bounty some fifteen feet below the surface. He cannot see his reflection from here, but he does not need to, cracked as it is into a wide smile. Finally, a turn for the better.

* * *

A spate of industriousness follows; the elders would be proud. There is so much to do! He flits between his tasks, spirit alight with energy, enamored of the moment and utterly failing to recognize how he is less at peace than ever. Who needs peace when there is work to be done? He scrawls his tasks on a scrap of paper he’s dug up from somewhere, eager to breeze through them and get right to his new business as a professional tea master.

> Fortify well so doesn’t collapse again — finish reading book — follow up rudimentary irrigation system proposed in chapter six — water plants LOTS — prune ALL bushes to waist level — compost clippings for veg garden — shore up old woks for steaming leaves — chop more bamboo to weave into rolling pans — chop more firewood, can’t subsist on water, air, and hypothetical vegetables —

And so forth. _The Classic of Tea_ is Aang’s constant companion in the fields, along with the voice that once gave it life, and gives _him_ life now.

 _Love the enthusiasm,_ it remarks. _But Zuodu wasn’t built in a day; neither will these fields return to fertile pliancy as quickly as you might wish. They’ve stood barren for so long._

“Yes, but the sooner I get things started, the sooner they’ll have an inkling of returning,” Aang follows logically, elbow-deep in clippings from the tea bushes. It’s dusk, nearly dark out with no moon in the sky, but he finds his way between the rows of plants with his feet. There’s no sense in bringing a candle or a torch out to light his way; too much risk of burning down everything he’s worked for already.

* * *

The months pass in this unsustainable cycle. Aang rises before dawn to tend to the plants, not satisfied until the entire place is misted over in dewdrops. Occasional trips into town for food and other necessities punctuate his otherwise single-minded devotion to the tea, but even these become less frequent as the weather changes. The long-neglected fields take shape under Aang’s prudent hand, and slowly, the verdure of lush tea fills the hillside. The tender green leaves won’t be ready in time for spring’s first flush, before Qingming Festival, but they should reach maturity by late spring, when the season just starts to turn torrid.[3]

The distribution of work on a tea farm is an inverted mountain. Preparing the fields in the beginning, then a long, idle slump while waiting for the leaf buds to mature, watering them all the while. And finally, the busywork of harvest, which can be spread out across three to four cycles over the summer and early autumn, followed by the dormancy of winter.

He is approaching the waiting period now, and soon, the work of the fields will no longer occupy his time, leaving him to the maw of his grief once more. Zuko knows this from experience, having been in the same position long ago as he struggled to reconcile his innumerable sorrows: losing Uncle Iroh, being scarred in his Agni Kai, banished from his home, and left to anonymity far away. Their coping methods are not meant to stand in for true acceptance and resolution of their grief. Nonetheless, Aang labors nonstop throughout the lengthening days and all too often the whole night through as well. Helpless to stop him, Zuko accompanies him, watching over his activities with growing fondness.

* * *

Aang spends one evening on a little gazebo he’s constructed for himself amid a clearing in the fields, open to the air and pleasingly shady. He revisits _The Classic of Tea_ at length for the proper manner of harvesting and preparing tea. According to the instructions, he should pluck only stalks with undamaged leaves: two leaves and a bud per stalk. The leaves should be set out in the sun on rolling pans, which he’s made using thin bamboo strips interwoven to form flat, round wicker baskets, the leaves spread out as much as possible across their wide circumference to facilitate their drying. They should then be roasted in the large wok outside the cottage and rolled by hand in the baskets to crush them and release their leafy substance.

“‘The bridge to success requires pressure, as this author knows from experience,’” Aang reads from the manuscript.[4] “What a nonchalant way of saying, ‘My father burned and humiliated me, then banished me to the farthest reaches of the land so that I could alight on the bridge to success in tea making.’”

Reading through _The Classic of Tea_ and stumbling upon such witticisms makes him feel oddly closer to Zuko. Sometimes it even seems to embolden the voice and bring it close at hand.

 _More like a trial by fire, in hindsight,_ it remarks drily. _But it’s unprofessional to disclose too much personal business in a manuscript intended for publication._

Aang is soberingly reminded of the success that was decidedly not achieved by Zuko here, as well as the failure that he himself is doomed to undergo, the last wavering remnant of his people. Even now, the candle of his spirit flickers, buffeted endlessly by the crushing gales of his ruined destiny.

“You know, I can’t even firebend.” He sets the scroll aside, feeling nauseated all of a sudden. “I’m not much of an Avatar.”

_One day you will learn. I know you will._

“How?” he demands. “How do you suppose I find someone who will believe that I’m just a late-blooming firebender and teach me, no questions asked?”

 _You will find a way,_ the voice soothes. _It is your destiny._

* * *

He watches Aang’s flame wavering, if it could be called watching, this disembodied sensation of the energy around him. Watching does not exist without sight; at best, he can gravitate towards the pull of Aang’s spirit, lambent and welcoming, and feel the world grow a little warmer and closer. But he now senses the edges of that radiant spirit crumbling, like a candle melted through and through. His immaterial heart aches for Aang’s.

He does not know the metaphysics of it; he knows only that within the tea bushes that Aang has so lovingly rescued from the brink of death is stored the essence of their original cultivator—Zuko himself. As long as that energy remains, Aang shall have succor from his weariness.

 _You will find a way,_ he repeats, infusing the words this time with a little energy that he musters from the soil and the water and the plants, the only material existence he now knows. He’s done it a few times without Aang noticing, too heartbroken by the airbender’s cruel burdens to stand by and do nothing.

The tiny finger of Aang’s flame flutters and redoubles its radiance, but that momentary joy quickly sours. “Don’t,” Aang says sharply. “Whatever you’re doing, stop.”

 _Why?_ Why won’t Aang accept his help?

“I tend to sleep without dreaming if I’m exhausted,” Aang admits, a quiet shame creeping into his voice. “Why do you think I put my nose to the grind like this every day? —To forget the past at night. Plus, the more energy you put into me, the less you shine. Your voice starts to fade, and I don’t want to lose the only friend I have here.”

Zuko can think of nothing to say to that.

* * *

“I like your voice,” Aang confesses.

Silence. Well, that didn’t have the intended effect—quite the opposite. Zuko’s been rather tightlipped since last night. Maybe he was offended by Aang’s refusal to accept what little energy he could spare. He wonders if Zuko’s ever tried to do that for anyone else, whether other people can even hear him.

“Your voice is like… an endless sea of serenity,” he elaborates haltingly. “If I listen to you, I can believe that everything’s going to be alright. I remember listening to the monks leading meditation sessions when I was a child. Their voices were like the unflappable face of the mountain: unchangeable but perfect in themselves.”

A lone breeze tickles Aang’s scalp as he bends over a tea plant that’s thinking about letting leaf rot spoil its glorious foliage, how _dare._

_Mountains can be moved, though: tunneled through or eroded by wind and rain. Nothing is immutable, least of all a voice in the wind._

Aang lies down, long accustomed as an Air Nomad to making do with the nearest flat surface as a bed. The fields welcome him, the empty spaces between rows lined with hay to prevent weeds from putting down roots. “I know,” he tells Zuko tiredly. “Everything’s changed. But the more I stay out here, the clearer I can hear your voice and feel your presence. I don’t want that to change.”

* * *

“Is there some kind of tea ceremony I should observe?” Aang wonders halfway through harvesting the third row of tea bushes. “I don’t even have a decent tea set or a proper infuser or anything.”

 _To be honest with you, the best tea tastes delicious whether it comes in a porcelain pot or a tin cup. Don’t worry about ceremony._ [5]

“But I want to do it properly,” he protests. “If there are rites and ceremonies to be performed, I want to preserve them for…” _For whom?_ He asks himself in vain. _Who under the reign of Fire Lord Ozai is going to care about tea ceremonies and all their pomp and circumstance, as detailed by his disgraced, dead son?_

“I just don’t want another cultural tradition extinguished,” he says, a whisper barely audible to his own ears. Zuko listens to his soul, though; sound is merely an artifact. _Not when I’ve let all the traditions of my own people die with them,_ remains unspoken on the back of his tongue.

 _I understand. But the purpose of making tea is for your own enjoyment,_ Zuko says without judgment. _Much has been lost these past years, but your passion and devotion has rekindled a new flame. You need not shine too bright._

* * *

The day is bright and sunny, and Aang does not feel like waiting any longer. He begins the process of preparing the leaves by shaking them out to lie in a single layer on the bamboo-woven round pans constructed for this purpose. The sun dries them expediently; he has only harvested about a quarter of the mature tea leaves so far.

“You _will_ tell me if I’m doing something egregiously wrong?” he asks of the heavy, humid air.

 _Longjing is not the nectar of the gods,_ the voice reproves gently. _As long as you follow the instructions to the best of your ability, you should be able to produce something drinkable. Don’t worry so much about getting it right on the first try._

“That’s not what I was asking.”

Sometimes, Aang wonders if he’s only this flippant and familiar with the voice because he’s not entirely certain that it’s real. He could be insane. People have lost their minds over much less than the purging of their entire race from the face of the earth and the heavenly expanse. Imaginary friends have their uses; imaginary strangers, much less so.

As the tea leaves sun themselves, he debates between harvesting more and focusing himself on other tasks. He decides to leave the rest of the rows for another day; after all, the sun is on its way to bed. He settles himself down in the wooded gazebo and fidgets with the weave of a basket that’s starting to see wear.

“What do you miss most about being alive?”

He can almost feel the uncertain, musing quality of pondering encircle him, the voice’s presence strongest here in the middle of the fields. He wonders what will follow, whether it’s a product of a true departed soul bound to this place, or just the imaginations of his lonely mind. What’s so great about being alive? Certainly not much, at present.

 _I’ll get back to you on that_ , the voice says noncommittally. 

Amazing. Even Aang’s own imagination can’t fabricate a good reason to live. Fortunately, there’s the automaticity of existence—day in, day out, lifeless though not pulseless.

That evening, he pan-fires the leaves in a large, heavy wok that’s built into a stone dais outside the cottage, with a recessed tray below the wok’s belly to house fuel for the fire. He lights it and gets to work, pushing the leaves around the smooth sides of the wok as sweat rolls down his temples.

 _Try to not only roll them around, but also press down on them with your stirrer to crush them a little,_ the voice advises. _A tea master would usually prepare the wok with some essential oils to roast the leaves, but since we don’t have any, you’ll have to make do with the leaves’ own fragrance._

“What happened to not worrying about getting it right on the first try?” Aang retorts in recalcitrance. He starts to roll them around more vigorously as advised.

 _Well, I just mean, I just mean for you to… to, well, to succeed._ The voice falters, the first hint of a nervous stammer that Aang’s heard from it. _This means a lot to me._

Aang listens to the meaning between those halting words and binds it to his heart with quiet devotion. He won’t let Zuko down.

* * *

The next morning, he sets the leaves out to dry in the sun one final time and makes his way down to Zuodu with some purchases in mind. Zuko said that good tea tastes good even in a tin can, but the thing is, Aang can’t even find a tin can in the house. There are a few wooden bowls scattered about, but if he ever owned any finer dining ware, it’s long gone.

 _I didn’t leave a will or anything. There wasn’t time; it all happened so quickly,_ Zuko remarks, seemingly unperturbed when Aang brings up the absence of his personal effects. _Some of the townspeople came by a few days afterwards, but I don’t know if they were the ones to help themselves to any final bequests, or if it was thieves or travelers. The only thing of value I owned was_ The Classic of Tea. _You’re my heir, in that sense._

In town, Aang buys two clay tea bowls and a small teapot with the meager rewards he’s earned from peddling firewood around town. Each shallow red bowl fits perfectly into his palm. The teapot has a length of twine wrapped around its handle to insulate his hand when he picks it up. The wares are porous but smooth, with a faint lustrous sheen gracing their curves. They’re not fancy, but they’ll do the job.

His errand done, he goes to the school to seek out Onji.

“Aang!” she greets him as he finds her in the main classroom. She’s sweeping between the desks with a broom. “I haven’t seen you in a while. I’ll be with you in just a moment; the students usually clean up after themselves, but I still have to make sure they haven’t missed anything. Cleanliness is next to godliness, so they say.”

“I’ll help you with that,” he offers. She relinquishes the broom gratefully, and it strikes Aang that wrangling dozens of unruly children by herself every day must be exhausting.

“Godliness?” he inquires, not expecting much by way of an answer. It’s just a saying, after all. The militaristic nature of the Fire Nation doesn’t seem to have much patience for spirituality or any sort of worship, as much as he’s managed to gather, that is.

Onji nods at the wall behind him. He turns to face an enormous portrait of a narrow-faced man with a pointed chin and beard, a flame-shaped crown set in his topknot. He doesn’t look to be past the summer of his lifespan, perhaps in his fourth decade, but his eyes pierce Aang through wintry monochrome, cold as death.

At his puzzled glance, Onji sighs. “Fire Lord Ozai, Aang. The Son of Heaven, our sovereign. It wouldn’t do to set a bad example by allowing this place to gather dust before his image.”

Hm. “I see.” Then, “How is your father? You’d mentioned a couple weeks ago that he’d been ill.”

“He’s well enough now. His mind is still confused sometimes; he’ll ask me where my husband is when he knows very well that I’ve not yet married.” She laughs a little self-consciously, but it sounds almost forced to Aang. “Seems like he’s just projecting his wishes aloud. But don’t let me rain on your spirits; old men’s minds will wander. It’s nothing—did you have anything specific in mind for us today?”

It takes a moment for him to register that she means, “Where shall we go on our date today?” But unfortunately, two hearts that do not align may not tread the same path. He’s here for something entirely different.

“Do you… that is, would you happen to know what Fire Lord Ozai’s son, Zuko, looked like?” He clenches his teacups more tightly, nervously. 

She looks at him a bit oddly. “No, in fact; we only get portraits of the current Fire Lord for the classroom. But I can tell you more about him, if you’re interested.”

“I’d like that.” He nods vigorously.

“Well, we’re certainly not going to stand around talking!” she declares, and the odd frown is gone, replaced by a familiar disarming enthusiasm. She snatches the broom out of Aang’s idle hands. “I’ve been meaning to try something from the little dumpling stand that just opened at the end of the street; won’t you come with me?”

_Drat, another date. But if she can tell me more about Zuko… all right, then._

* * *

Evening has descended by the time he extracts himself from Onji and returns to the house. With a mounting sense of—of what? Doom? Certainly something more benign but no less stomach-turning—he bags up the leaves, their lush blades now flat and darkened. They are ready.

He doesn’t know what Zuko looks like, but he thinks he understands a little better now, between Onji and his own tea field fever dreams-become-reality, what sort of a person he was. The passions that drove him, the battles that broke him, the father that fated him to die here, forgotten and alone. What he enjoyed about being alive.

All this and more are the details baked into the leaves by sunlight and fire, infused by the sparkling spring water. But Aang still does not know everything about Zuko, and so he does not know what to expect when the tea is poured.

Inside, he fills the teapot with water and places it over a tripod brazier, lighting the fire with spark rocks. The water is clear and fresh, drawn from the hidden Dragon Well upfield. From beside his bed, he drags a short stool and low side table, on which he places the shallow clay bowl. Into its broad curve, he sprinkles a few pinches of tea leaves. Their dry, rigid blades tinkle as they fall onto the smooth surface, like tiny, muted bells. The water boils beside him, bubbles disturbing the lid and flicking off tiny droplets that hiss as they plop onto the hot coals and sizzle into steam. The moment is electric, his ears primed to the minutest of sounds, his hair tufted and feeling like it’s standing on end (he has grown it out enough for that to be feasible).

He lifts the teapot. The presence of the innocent dead is so thick in the air that his hand trembles with the scant weight of the clay, borne down by the intense energy above it. Despite his trepidation, as he pours the water into his bowl, the stream is constant and undisturbed by splashes. The tea leaves swirl in the eddy formed by the waterfall, frantic but also peaceful, finite and limited by the bowl’s rounded rim.

Aang watches, breath sustained as the tea burbles and the water turns pale yellow-green with the substance of the leaves. Before they begin to settle down to the bottom of the bowl, a lone tendril of steam rises up from the surface. The water is as turbulent as the blood pumping through his heart now, but the steam is as steady and unbroken as the breath he exhales in anticipation. The air from his lungs seems to combine with the steam, encouraging it to wax and rise still higher, darker and thicker than any ordinary vapor, far more of it than warranted by one small bowl of tea. Aang dares not look away as the steam writhes and twists, finally coalescing into the ethereal but unmistakable form of a man.

“Zuko.” A prayer, a blessing, a plea, all wrapped into one ragged whisper, uttered as if to a lover.

.

.

.

“ _Zuko_.”

* * *

1  The Qiantang River flows through Hangzhou, the capital of Zhejiang province. [return to text] 

2 [Longjing](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Longjing_tea) (which mean's Dragon's well) is one of the most highly prized Chinese teas, and originates from Hangzhou, the site of the eponymous dragon's well. The legend isn't quite as described in the chapter, but you can read a version for yourself [here](https://tavalon.com/the-legend-of-dragons-well/). [return to text] 

3 Qingming Festival is a day for spending with family, venerating ancestors, and sweeping graves; it takes place around April 4th. Tea plucked before Qingming Festival are called Mingqian tea, and the leaves are especially precious and tender. [This video](https://www.facebook.com/watch/?v=1885158231535985) actually inspired a lot of the teamaking process in this chapter; I stumbled upon it years ago, and I honestly don’t think I would have written this fic if not for it. [return to text] 

4 "The bridge to success requires pressure": this is an inside joke with myself and anyone who watches TwoSetViolin. It sounds like something wise Uncle Iroh would say, but it's actually a pun made by the inimitable Eddy Chen in the context of making some very creative (and sacrilegious) modifications to a violin bridge. If you want to learn more, check out [this video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XEQLxstx6TU). [return to text] 

5  As said by Uncle Iroh in "Avatar Day". [return to text] 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are starting to move along! Please leave a comment if you enjoyed reading this :D Once again, I don’t have any of the future chapters outlined in detail yet, and my in-person clinical rotations are resuming next week (ugh), so I won't have much time OTL
> 
> Inspiration for tea spirit!Zuko comes from [this Tumblr post](https://terracemuse.tumblr.com/post/186233745564/smile-to-the-cloud-in-your-tea).


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aang and Zuko resonate together, both remnants of another era, forgotten by today. Aang sells the tea, and Zuko makes a promise to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by consecutive snow days allowing me to stay home and spend all my time writing and editing. Fortunately I'm in a part of the country that's kind of able to deal with snow despite not usually getting much. It's insane how many natural disasters have been compounded by incompetent govt and greedy corporations in places like Texas and other states every damn year. (Lol I say that just as I remember my home state of California dealing with the same situation but on the other side of the weather spectrum, with the wildfires). 
> 
> That said, I promise this fic is a lot sunnier than grim reality. This chapter is very long and contains quite a bit of tense angst towards the end, but don’t worry, it ends happily! I was considering leaving it on the tense cliffhanger, but I love you all too much to do that to you.

“ _Zuko.”_

It occurs to Zuko that he should say something. You know, as participants in normal conversation do. But it’s been so long since he’s participated in a conversation out loud, normal or paranormal, that he’s not sure he remembers the conventions.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, because it rises to his mind, and he can’t think of anything else to say. Given the aghast expression on Aang’s flawless face, that obviously is not part of accepted social convention. _Might as well condense myself back into the teacup and spare myself the embarrassment._

“Ngk,” Aang says, then, more eloquently, “You can see me?”

“…yes. Can’t you see _me?”_

“Yes, I can. Well, you’re kind of see-through right now, but you’re getting brighter.” He motions towards the bowl, where the tea continues to steep, vapor pouring off its surface and feeding Zuko’s image. He clucks in mock-concern. “Still no color in your cheeks, though; have you been eating properly?”

 _The only nourishment I need,_ Zuko thinks, _is the pleasure of your company and the incandescence of your spirit. That, and water, sunlight, and soil, obviously._ But he doesn’t say any of this aloud, because he’s already slipped up with “You’re beautiful.”

How can he see Aang if he himself remains a phantasm conjured of tea leaves and longing? He has no eyes, no physical brain to make sense of the image before him, but it doesn’t matter. Even if he couldn’t see Aang in the flesh, he would still find him beautiful and perfect as he is.

“You should taste the tea while the water’s hot,” he says. He looks down and finds that he has translucent hands with which he gestures towards the mostly full teapot. “Go on.”

Aang pushes the bowl of tea across the table to keep Zuko in his field of vision and fills the second bowl with a clump of tea leaves. The water hisses and spits as he pours it in.

“Let it steep for a bit,” he suggests. “There’s no rush.”

Aang looks back at him, his attention temporarily divided by the motions of pouring tea. “How is this possible?”

He shrugs, and there is no weight associated with the motion. Somehow, physical habits are entrained into his mind despite not having a body to boss around. He only knows that he has shrugged because he can see the motion of his shoulders up and down. It is beyond strange.

“I’m not a sage; you would know more of these matters, in that regard. But my guess is that my spiritual energy lingered in the field after I died, and now it’s transmuting itself into the tea. And you happen to be able to sense me.”

The tea has given off enough steam that he now has a complete though immaterial torso and legs, and he sits down across the table from Aang. Once again, the motion is unaccompanied by the perturbing absence of any actual mass on his haunches. 

“Do you think other people could see you if they drank the tea?”

“Hm…” It might complicate matters if word got out that the long-dead Lee was haunting top-tier Longjing leaves. Certainly it would hurt Aang’s business prospects. “Not sure. We could test it—take some tea leaves down to the market and give people samples. If they start screaming, we know we’ve got a problem.”

“That, or they’re just disgusted by my low-quality tea.” Aang chooses to think more pessimistically.

“Don’t be so glum,” he cajoles. “I refuse to believe that someone who followed my crowning thesis so faithfully would be rewarded by subpar tea, even if you’ve never done this before. Try it now, it should be ready.”

Aang does as he says, cupping the bowl between two hands and sipping slowly. A cautious smile blossoms across his face and across his soul, and he partakes more deeply, tipping the bowl and tasting its contents with pleasure.

“The first bowl moistens my lips and throat / The second bowl shatters my loneliness,” Zuko quotes. “Lu Tong’s famous ode, ‘Seven Bowls of Tea.’”

“What do the next five bowls do?” Aang inquires mischievously. The tea brings a low flush to his cheeks, a livelier glint to his eyes. “Or maybe I should find out for myself?”

* * *

The Longjing is strong but not overpowering, delighting his taste buds and leaving him satiated. He drains the bowl and places it back on the table with a soft clink.

“What will you do now?” Zuko asks.

The puzzling non sequitur doesn’t throw him, though it’s hard to interpret what Zuko means. Now as in, this exact moment? Go to sleep, maybe. But in a more long-term sense… “I don’t know,” he says simply.

Zuko accepts this with equanimity. “Historically, a peaceful cup of tea has helped many people resolve unknowable quandaries.”

“Mm…” He feels a little sleepy, the volume of tea inside him and the strange but wondrous spirit before him lulling him into a kind of drowsy happiness. _Is this enlightenment? Or is this attachment of the earthliest form?_

“If you ask me, you might as well sell the leaves in town. I’ve done it before; I’m sure I can be of great help to you.”

“Sell it?” Aang blinks furiously, very not sleepy all of a sudden. “But, that would be like selling _you!”_

“You can’t drink all this tea by yourself, and there’s no point in letting it go to waste,” Zuko says sensibly. “What is tea but a gift to be shared with joy and good will? Besides, I’m still here, bound to this field. I’m not going anywhere.”

“But what if people see you when they drink the tea?”

Zuko ponders this. “I don’t know that they will. Back when I had just died, some townspeople came by to survey the place, and they tramped all around the house and through the fields as well, where I was buried. But none of them gave any indication that they heard me or sensed anything awry. It might just be your being the Avatar, Aang. Your spirituality lets you sense what others cannot.”

It’s a logical line of thought, as much as logic has a place in this realm of spirits and the world beyond death, but Aang finds himself more distracted by the fact that Zuko said his name. Now that he thinks about it, he doesn’t think he’s heard his name in Zuko’s voice up until now.

“We won’t know until we try. I’ll harvest some more leaves tomorrow so we’ll have a nice big batch to bring into town later.”

“That’s the spirit.”

“No, _you’re_ the spirit.” Aang flushes, feeling warmer than he has cause to despite the tea he’s consumed. He hasn’t felt so giddily overjoyed by another person’s presence since… well, a very long time.

“Duly noted,” Zuko retorts, and his features stretch wide in a translucent smile.

* * *

After some trial and error, Aang discovers a few things about Zuko’s steamy tea corporation. It’s largely tied to the vicinity of the tea bowl, as if the leaves themselves are holding the steam there. Zuko also starts to fade as the tea cools and the vapor disappears, so Aang has to pour out the cold tea and refill the bowl with hot water if he’s to maintain contact with Zuko. Alternatively, he’s also tried placing leaves in the pot itself and letting it simmer on the fire, steam brewing at a constant, gentle rate. Zuko’s voice persists in the fields, so Aang leaves the tea bowls inside as he harvests more of the crop outside.

“Tell me something about yourself,” he ventures midway through the morning, stricken by the monotony of plucking leaf after leaf after leaf. “I learned a lot about your military and political exploits from Onji, but I don’t know how much of that reflects the real you. Tell me something I couldn’t learn about you from a school textbook.”

The voice hesitates thoughtfully. It’s an unusual line of questioning: how many historical figures can a person approach in this fashion to demand knowledge of their private lives? Well, nothing about their circumstances has ever been usual.

 _I don’t know what the textbooks say about me, but I imagine they wouldn’t have written about my relationship with my sister, Azula_ , Zuko begins. _They’d have a lot to say about her military genius and knack for court maneuverings, but if we were ever discussed conjointly, it would be to the effect of diminishing my talents and exaggerating hers, or speculating that she turned my father against me to claim my birthright. But our relationship was hardly so antagonistic._

He’s not far off the mark. Onji’s summaries of recent Fire Nation history for Aang’s benefit had indeed mentioned Zuko’s prodigious sister Azula, described as power-hungry and willing to do anything to succeed.

_During the war, when we were on the front lines, she didn’t like to give the impression that we were on good terms. But I know how many assassination attempts on me she foiled before they were even carried out. Extra supplies would find their way to me, always things that my men and I sorely needed—medicine, new gloves, waterskins, you name it. They were always undersigned by our commanding officer, but I knew if I bothered to trace their origin, I’d find Azula at the bottom of it. Heaven knows Shinu wouldn’t care._

“Why did so many people want to kill you?”

_Jealousy; spurious beliefs that Azula would make a better Fire Lord, which I won’t debate; misplaced sense of nationalism. For some reason, all the other commanders felt very unnerved by the fact that I’d avoid harassing civilians in the Earth Kingdom or plundering villages to get what we needed. Maybe they didn’t think I’d be stringent enough to impose our rule on the conquered people. I suppose they might have been right, considering the circumstances of my fall from grace._

Hearing the question in Aang’s pause from his methodical harvesting, Zuko continues. _It’s a story for another time, but suffice to say, I was recalled from the front lines due to an incident in which I turned against my fellow countrymen in defense of our enemies. Azula came back as well; she tried to get me to defend myself in the war council or at least say something that wouldn’t irreversibly damn my cause. But I refused. I couldn’t lie to myself anymore—I hated the war, and the things I did in the war, and my father, and our glorious March of Civilization. I denounced my father before Azula and all the generals and councilors._

“And that’s why you had to fight the Agni Kai against your father,” Aang concludes.

 _And you know the rest. Azula never visited me here or initiated any sort of communication._ Zuko sounds incorrigibly grumpy about this. _Maybe she got what she wanted, in the end: my banishment and her elevation to Crown Princess. But I never thought she’d be capable of such artifice. She was calculating, but she wasn’t cold._

* * *

“I’ve always enjoyed tea. Back in the air temples, we used to have bison milk tea with breakfast. It’s very fortifying. We’d have butter tea as a treat on holidays or with visitors.”[1] Aang’s nose scrunches up as if watering at the mere recollection of the flavor. “It would warm you right up on a cold day ten thousand feet in the air, but somehow I think it’d be a bit excessive in this climate.”

Zuko contemplates this as Aang packages tea leaves for sale. He twists in place, steam swirling with him and tracking Aang’s movements. “That’s an intriguing concept. The creamy lather of milk-fat versus the more reserved notes of Longjing… I fear that one would overpower the other.”

“Yeah, we actually used Pu-erh leaves for the tea; they’re pungent enough to hold their own. The nuns at the Eastern Air Temple had lovely tea farms ranging from the base of the mountains to halfway up the peaks. That’s where I met my sky bison as well.”

He listens carefully to the modulations of Aang’s clarion voice. It hides the faintest edges of lingering grief for his people, his animal companion, even the loss of a culinary tradition. There can be no butter tea without sky bison, and Zuko has not heard tell of any remaining herds since before he was born.

“It’s alright, though,” Aang declaims spiritedly. “Your Longjing is in a class of its own, though that might not mean a lot coming from me. I’m less than a connoisseur.”

“Nonsense. It means everything to me.”

A soft blush paints Aang’s cheeks, though maybe that’s just the exertion of hefting tea wares around the house. If Zuko could blush, he’s sure that his face would mirror Aang’s.

“One of my friends, Jinju, couldn’t tolerate any milk in his tea. It would make him have the worst stomach upset, and he’d have to drink his tea plain while the rest of us had nice frothy tea, mm… Pu-erh’s not the most palatable drink first thing in the morning, especially on an empty stomach. He always looked so forlorn.”[2]

Aang describes how he embarked on a quest to formulate a milk-like alternative for his unfortunate friend. Apparently barley or hazelnuts can be crushed and strained into a thick liquid with the consistency of milk but a nuttier taste. Zuko listens with amusement as the airbender weaves a thrilling tale of how his invented milk substitute became popular not just with Jinju, but the rest of the young monks as well, leaving the aged temple leadership to shake their heads in consternation as butter tea lost favor to barley milk tea.

It’s late already, and Aang has finished his work for the day. Still, he seems reluctant to pour out the tea that remains untouched on the table, maintaining Zuko’s corporation. He douses the fire and climbs into bed.

“I miss them all so terribly,” he confesses. “I can’t even put it into words… it’s like being stabbed every time I’m reminded of their loss. It comes on when I’m unaware, and it doesn’t dull with time. Sometimes it ebbs, but sometimes it comes back with so much force.”

The steam from the tea is fading quickly, but Zuko doesn’t worry. He does not need to see Aang to be able to hear and feel, and more importantly, soothe his pain.

“It gets better when you’re talking to me. We’re the same, you and I: remnants of a life that should have been extinguished long ago. Candles burning at the end of their wick… ghosts forgotten by everyone else.”

It’s an apt consideration, but Zuko knows this isn’t true for Aang.

“It’s not just my people,” Aang continues. “The whole world has moved on. The masters I trained with in the other nations must have long since passed away. The friends that I met, the places I went… three generations at least have passed, three lifetimes of people who never hoped for the Avatar to change the world. And now I’m back, but I don’t know what to do about… everything.” He flails a hand blindly through the dark, the gesture as definitive as his uncertainty about his role in the world.

Zuko doesn’t know either. Aang needs time to figure himself out, and hurrying him won’t help matters. Selfishly, Zuko feels that they can wait. He’s been dead for five years, and the Avatar has been lost to history for far longer than that. What do a few days or months matter in comparison to eons spent sunken in obscurity? He quashes the guilty whispers gnawing at the edges of his soul and settles in to watch over Aang’s sleep.

* * *

Zuko’s theory about people not being able to see him holds up when Aang sets up shop by the dumpling stand the next day. The vendor looks miffed at first but relents when she realizes that he’s not selling the same thing.

“I haven’t had a good cup of tea in years!” she exclaims, accepting a free bowl of tea gratefully. Aang bites the inside of his lip to keep from laughing as Zuko condenses into being and oozes away from her as quickly as the steam will allow.

“Do have a taste before you make any qualifications about _good_ or not,” he advises humbly. Zuko shoots him a dirty look.

“Oh, don’t be silly; you’re the one who’s taken over Lee’s tea farm, aren’t you?” Word seems to have gotten around, unsurprising in a town of this size. “I’m glad to hear it. It was such a shame, letting that land go to waste.” She sips deeply, smiling at Aang right through Zuko’s translucent image. “Tastes just like old times.”

 _That’s a much warmer reception than I was expecting,_ Aang thinks with relief. Zuko preens, ‘I told you so’ radiating smugly from his gaseous form.

The dumpling lady lends him half a dozen extra bowls, citing his need to accommodate the midmorning rush, and she’s not wrong. Before long, people are thronging to check out the new tea stand, which is really just a cart Aang found behind the house and fixed up to hold all his tea-making implements. He hands out bowls of tea like he can’t get rid of them quickly enough. Zuko’s steamy figure brightens as more tea is poured, but no one seems to notice him.

The Longjing tea cannot fail, it seems. Aang sells it by the ounce in small paper packets tied with twine and by the pound in large filter cloth bags. Before long, he’s on the verge of selling out. Onji stops by on her midday break and buys some leaves, remarking how her father used to love Lee’s brew. Rui Jing accepts a cup as well, proclaiming that he always knew Aang was destined for greater things than being a lowly stable hand.

“What should we do to celebrate?” Aang asks Zuko while Rui Jing is occupied with snarfing down his cup and getting back to business.

“I’d like to go to West Lake and see the sights again. It was always my favorite place to relax.”[3]

Before Aang can ask what or where that is, the stern visage of Gao Sheng, the county marshal, looms in his peripheral vision, two armed deputies flanking him.

“Well now, what’s going on here? What do you think you’re doing, selling tea in the market and muttering under your breath?” Gao Sheng’s short mustache and shorter temper bristle in indignation. “Is this any way to comport yourself under my watch? Do explain yourself, young man.”[4]

Aang blinks rapidly at the man’s exaggerated interrogation, the hallmark of a small man in a smaller office thinking himself a giant. He chugs down his own cup of tea in a hurry, just in case Gao Sheng can somehow see Zuko, and the specter of Longjing disappears. “What’s wrong with selling tea?”

“According to the Great Restoration, tea is an idle crop that does not fortify the body and mind for our glorious March of Civilization. You can’t possibly be ignorant of…”

Guru above, this man can _talk_ : spittle flying, hands waving, eyes bulging, deputies shifting awkwardly behind him, embarrassed on their shameless superior’s behalf. They’re too cowed to speak up, though, and Aang toughs it out, maintaining a bland expression falling just short of disrespectful, until Rui Jing intervenes.

“My man, do let me kick that soapbox out from under you. Listening to you go on makes me think you’ve got some kind of personal vendetta against all tea and teamakers!” He gesticulates with his half-full bowl of tea, spraying lukewarm water on the incredulous marshal. “A strong cup of tea will get you through a morning’s labor better than nothing, and just as well as the weak porridge that your average poor man breaks his fast on.”

“Don’t get involved; this has nothing to do with you,” Gao Sheng snaps, though there’s little bite to his bark.

“On the contrary, I have a vested interest in keeping this tea shop open given how it’s improved my morning. What’re you bothering Aang for, anyways?” Rui Jing continues, undeterred. “You never bother Xu You when he comes home from the colonies to sell illegal imported tea.”

The marshal sputters about something-something “licensed merchant,” “valid trading permit signed off by powers higher than me,” and other technicalities that Aang loses track of. Finally, he gives up on twisting himself into knots with his own hypocrisy and turns back to Aang.

“Very well, you’re off the hook for now,” he says, looking like every syllable costs him a drop of blood. “Just make sure you don’t go around selling huge batches of it to any merchants or people from out of town—I don’t need word about you getting back to the capital, or it’ll be more than just your neck on the chopping block.”

He storms off, his posse scuttling after him belatedly, as if they’d zoned out during his harangue and only just tuned back in. Aang turns to Rui Jing, perplexed. “Thanks for the rescue.”

Rui Jing shakes his head and hands his bowl back to Aang. “Gao Sheng’s just a bit tetchy; he doesn’t like when things get shaken up in what he thinks of as _his_ jurisdiction. Especially when the issue at hand is related to… _you know.”_

Aang raises an eyebrow at him, trying to intuit what’s unspoken. “You mean… Lee?”

“Exactly.”

 _Imagine what he’d say if he knew “Lee” is right here with us._ “I have a question: where could I find the West Lake? I’ve heard people talk about it, and I’d like to see it for myself sometime.”

Rui Jing utters a short, bark-like laugh, pained and dry. “Well, that would make sense if those people were talking about how desolate and nonexistent it is as a lake nowadays.” At Aang’s questioning look, he explains further. “West Lake used to be the biggest source of water for rice farmers around Zuodu; they’d draw water from it to flood their rice paddies in the spring. But then Ozai put his Great Restoration plan into effect four or five years ago, if I remember correctly—you’ve heard about that, yes?”

Aang nods vigorously; his lessons with Onji haven’t been for naught.

“It takes a lot of work to repurpose a field completely, plowing and sowing and changing all sorts of established routines, so of course people were resistant to the idea of converting to wheat crops as the Fire Lord wanted. At the time, he wasn’t yet sold on the idea of holding a blade to the people’s necks and forcing them to change their ways. He still wanted to give off the appearance of a benevolent sovereign.” Rui Jing’s voice dips low even as he scoffs, as if hoping to thwart any eavesdroppers who might overhear his less than benign evaluation of the Fire Lord.

“ _Still?_ Even after…” Aang starts to say, then cuts himself off as he realizes he was about to say, “ _after he had his son executed?”_ That’s not supposed to be common knowledge.

Rui Jing doesn’t notice his slip. “The navy had built a refinery up near the head of the Qiantang River, close to the source of the ore they mined for their battleships. The ships were constructed up there, but they’d have to sail downriver to get to the sea and then on their merry way to the Earth Kingdom. So what do you think they did?”

Aang thinks about it. “They needed the river to be wide and deep enough for the ships to sail down, so I imagine they would have taken water from the lake to boost the river’s volume.”

Rui Jing clucks with approval. “What a bright boy! Yes, they siphoned the West Lake, and what’s more, they drained it dry. They made sure the river was absolutely overflowing, the byproduct of which was that the farmers didn’t have enough water to fill their rice fields. Essentially, they were strongarmed into converting their fields to wheat, which requires much less water. According to the Fire Lord, it’s all for a good cause, but the people are rather more of the opinion that it’s for _no_ cause.”[5]

* * *

It is as Rui Jing said, Aang discovers when he visits the site of what was once the mighty West Lake, creatively named for its location west of the city. He glides over the eroded banks, the soil bleached dry by the sun after the water receded. Some vegetation grows halfheartedly here and there, hardy weeds that don’t need much water. In the middle of the depression, he notices a few outcroppings of earth that represent small islands once surrounded by the peaceful lake.

Zuko is not with him at the moment, having poured out the tea and his ghostly image earlier when Gao Sheng stopped him on the street. Aang lands on the largest erstwhile island. The lake’s dry basin is wide enough that he can’t see the nearest shore clearly from here, though he can make out a fuzzy border, probably a small forest at the foot of a mountain range. He wonders if Zuko would like to see what’s become of his favorite landscape, or if he’d prefer not to witness this desolation.

 _This war has taken so much from everyone,_ he ponders numbly. _Not just from the Air Nomads, or the other nations. The Fire Lord’s own subjects have suffered from this nonstop conflict, with no reward in sight._ The lake, drained; their crops, seized; their men, drafted; their hopes, withered and dried up like this lake. He can’t remain here any longer.

It’s unexpectedly freeing to be able to fly on his glider like this. No one traverses these castaway parts, the lake having exhausted its purpose after the Fire Nation drained it. It’s eerily quiet, without the chirp of birds or crickets, the ripple of tiny waves stirred by the wind, the rustle of trees in the breeze—nothing. He makes for the forested mountains beyond the shore, part of the range that extends to the tea plantation, Zuko’s house nestled among the farthest members of those peaks. That way lies home.

 _Is this my home now?_ He wonders. _I’m far from home—no, I have none, not anymore._

He rakes his gaze over the dense forest covering the mountainside whizzing beneath him, and his eyes alight on something that breaks the monotony of leafy darkness. He circles back to make sure he hasn’t hallucinated it, but there below is a sight he wouldn’t have expected in the forsaken Fire Nation. From between two mountains, a singular spire rises, its peak blunted and sloping into the roof of an ancient temple.

Aang swoops down closer. He has his suspicions, his heart pounding in his throat, and his pulse stutters for a moment as he notes the unfamiliar style of the temple’s architecture. Compared with the Southern Air Temple, its buildings squat low to the ground, three stories high at most, and the roofs flare out broadly, less pointed than the turrets that the Air Nomads favored. He lands in a wide courtyard, looking around himself with interest.

“Hello?” he calls out, but only the echo of his own voice answers. “Is anyone here?”

Tentatively, he makes a circuit of the courtyard, which is centrally located within a compound of several halls and chambers. Unlike the temples that he’s frequented, which were built proudly against the heavenly expanse, this place is shrouded in shadow, nestled among the bosom of the mountains, with trees growing all around it and even between the buildings of the temple complex. They hid it effectively from his sight at first, and he wonders if he was meant to find this place.

Aang enters the main hall, noting the inscription over the entrance: ‘Lingyin Temple.’ He strains to remember his history lessons from decades ago, affairs that tested his patience and eagerness to get away to more pleasurable activities like playing airball or baking fruit tarts with Gyatso. Lingyin Temple, if in fact it was founded by Air Nomads, can’t possibly have been important enough to recall so many years later.[6]

The statue of a great sage is seated at the head of the hall, a long procession of alcoves lining the walkway to his throne. Many of their recesses are empty, Aang notes as he treads silently up the hall. Upon closer inspection, the wood and stone floors of several of the alcoves are abraded and scuffed, as if there had been a struggle to remove their contents.

 _They were looted,_ he realizes. It is different from when he walked through the diminished Southern Air Temple soon after his awakening. Despite destroying most of the structure, the attacking armies could not take much of value with them—what use would they have for prayer beads or ancient texts, those that weren’t incinerated, that is? Nor could they haul away massive statues of esteemed gurus as the spoils of war. Whatever wasn’t destroyed, simply remained untouched for decades as a memento to Aang’s disgrace.

This Lingyin Temple did not escape the eyes of thieves and opportunists, though. The statues of old names and revered sages must have been taken from their pedestals; those of bronze or gold to be melted down, and those of stone or wood to be carved and repurposed into other goods, perhaps.

He has some recollection of learning about this place now. Its founding predates Avatar Yangchen, and it was constructed by wandering nomads from the Northern Air Temple, going on to become one of the wealthiest repositories of Air Nomad relics in the world. Monk Pasang, the head monk of the Southern Air Temple, had frowned upon their extravagance back while teaching Aang and his peers, but now it’s a breath of fresh air to him, a reminder that his people once existed. He gazes up at the carved wood statue at the front of the hall, its expression peaceful, almost vacant. He doesn’t know who it is, and if there was an inscription, it’s long gone as well. It might be the temple’s original founder, another name lost to Aang’s memory, or an ancient sage of old, deified by the centuries, or someone else entirely.

“Zuko, do you know who used to live here?”

Well of course, he can’t expect Zuko to answer without boiling some tea. That presents a bit of a dilemma until he notices a small bench to the side of the statue’s dais, on which are set a bronze brazier and a dusty pot with a spout. With water from his canteen and a smattering of loose twigs gathered from the courtyard, he strikes a flame under the pot and waits for his tea to boil. The statue’s eyes track sightlessly down the hall, and Aang shivers under its unknowable intensity.

There’s something odd about this place. He examines the vessels closely; the bronze is not discolored and decrepit as he would expect after seventy years of disuse, neither is the pot cracked at all. Nearby on a table, two incense holders carved in the shape of lotus flowers sit staidly, wooden petals uncracked, incense sticks still glossy, standing upright as if someone had just placed them as an offering. This temple is so well-kept for a place that’s supposedly been abandoned for years.

None of the townspeople would likely drag themselves out here on a regular basis to see to the temple’s upkeep, he reasons, and no Air Nomads exist to carry on its legacy. He seats himself before the statue with his bowl, leftover leaves in hand, and feels a profound sense of disquiet.

“Is everything alright?” Zuko asks as he blossoms into being. “You disappeared so quickly. Where are you now?”

“I’m fine,” Aang reassures him. He relates to Zuko what he’s learned about the West Lake, what he saw that remains of the once-great beauty of Zuodu. He tells him about the strange temple he found hidden in the mountains, a relic of bygone days when Air Nomads soared the open skies.

“It’s strange,” he finishes, nearly breathless from the length of his narrative. “It’s like stumbling off of a cliff when you thought you knew how many paces you were from the edge. I mean, what’s a thousand-foot drop to an airbender with a glider? Still, it’s unexpected and more than a bit unnerving.”

Zuko has said nothing in reaction to Aang’s long spiel. His ghostly conversationalist avoids his eyes, gaze darting all around the hall. Stumped, Aang takes a long sip from his own cup of tea while trying to unravel this puzzle. “Well?” he says at last.

“Er… well, what?” Zuko asks.

“What do you think of this place? What do you know, if anything, of its previous occupants? Rui Jing didn’t mention much to me about the sites around the lake, so I have no clue when the last time anyone lived here was. And my grasp of ancient Air Nomad history isn’t great, despite practically being a fossil myself.”

“Ah, well… um.” Zuko pauses, and now Aang is confused. What about this place doesn’t merit a straight answer? Either Zuko doesn’t know anything about it, in which case he would say, “I don’t know,” or he knows something but doesn’t want to tell Aang. What could it be?

“Zuko, what aren’t you telling me?”

The tea spirit sighs, a chilling sound that sets Aang’s teeth on edge. There is so much despair and self-denigration in that one sound—this doesn’t bode well.

“This temple was founded by one Monk Huili hundreds of years ago. I don’t know where he was from, but I heard tell that this place was plundered by the locals several years before the war even began. Any Air Nomads who used to live here fled at that time. No abbot has been in residence since then.”

Aang nods. That much is in line with what he’s guessed, so what constitutes Zuko’s reluctance to tell him more?

“However, it hasn’t always been empty. The townspeople avoid it like the tea plantation—superstitions, fear of ghosts, the usual, but I used to come here in the early days of my banishment. There’s a beautiful spring about halfway between here and the house. It’s not like Longjing, sequestered underground, and before I discovered the well, I’d go to the springs to bathe and draw water. Even after that, I’d still come to the temple sometimes to meditate or have some quiet time away from my work.”

Okay… still, nothing surprising. Zuko used to visit here, and no Air Nomad, Aang included, would begrudge him that. What’s the catch?

Zuko breathes in deeply, the action no longer tied to the necessity of air, but a reflection of a nervous habit. Aang suddenly feels very worried.

“I wasn’t the only one. Five years ago, I stumbled upon a group of Air Nomads, six or seven of them, who had taken refuge in the temple. They were afraid at first, but I promised I meant them no harm. They did not wear Air Nomad robes or bear the tattoos of airbending masters, but they carried glider-staffs like yours. I learned that they were the descendants of those who had survived the genocide seventy years ago.”

The air, Aang thinks, is suddenly very sparse and thin, and they’re not nearly high enough in the mountains for that to be an issue.

“They were trying to hide in plain sight and had roamed the more far-flung parts of the eastern Fire Nation for many years,” Zuko continues. “They were drawn here to Lingyin Temple, remembering their ancestral founder. Nostalgia counts for a lot, and after all, no one would suspect the descendants of a dead people still inhabited the land, much less the land of the nation that vanquished them. They would have gone unnoticed, too, but my father somehow found out. He sent highly trained secret agents, the Yuyan archers, to arraign the Air Nomads.

“I tried to hide them in my house, but we were tracked down, and I bade them escape before they were captured. They fled on their gliders while I held off the Yuyan archers, until they overcame me.” He laughs, a sour, wry chuckle that leaves no room for true mirth. “There was never any chance of me escaping. My father must have celebrated the excuse to definitively deal with me. I’m sure he would have come up with something in due time, but this was just too good an opportunity to pass up.

“So now you know,” he concludes simply. “They escaped, though of course, I don’t know what became of them. In the span of five days, I met a group of Air Nomads thought to be long dead, betrayed my nation by protecting them from capture, and was beheaded for my efforts. There’s a chance that they’re still alive, somewhere out there. I gave them a very good head start.”

Aang is silent, the words thrumming through his mind too violent and unrestrained to utter. Zuko can’t fail to notice, of course. “What’s wrong, Aang? I don’t mean to sound bitter about my death. I’m not, and I don’t blame them for it either. I did what I knew was right, and I’m glad to have helped them.”

“Did you know this to be right, too?” Aang says, voice brittle, more broken and dry than the lifeless lake outside. “Not telling me about the existence of _living Air Nomads until now?”_

Zuko is shocked into silence, and Aang feels a rush of vindictive pleasure. He almost relishes that sinful rage, his anger boiling over like the teapot on the fire. “All this time I’ve been living here, thinking I was the only one of my kind left in the universe. I had no reason to believe otherwise. The air temple that was my home stood completely empty. No one in Zuodu had ever seen an airbender in living memory. My people were lost to history, or so I thought, until you revealed that as recently as five years ago, they walked in this very place where we are now. All this time, I’ve been wasting my days planting tea when I could have been looking for the remnants of my people, whom I failed!”

 _And you… you failed me,_ he does not say, but he knows that Zuko understands this. It’s plain in the recoil of his shoulders as his gauzy image blurs, Aang’s breathless tirade disturbing the steam.

Enough of this. He turns to face the doorway, having sprung to his feet in rage at some point, and briefly considers upending the tea bowls and extinguishing Zuko for a long, traitorous moment. In the end, he does not, and instead storms out of the temple to be elsewhere with his fury.

Behind him, a languorous tea spirit sinks to its knees between two bowls, prostrating itself before the sage of the temple, who looks on, unknowing of the cares projected onto its timeless features.

* * *

He clutches his glider staff in a tight fist, tendons taut with barely suppressed anger. How could Zuko not have told him? His brethren, wandering and lost in a strange land, abetted by the son of their enemies, himself an outcast. Before this, Aang had had no hope of ever finding the dregs of his fellow Air Nomads. The townspeople hadn’t seen the refugees in question and believed that Lee had been falsely accused. Now Aang knows that some are still out there, but he does not feel so hopeful as furious.

Lost in seething, he throws himself out the main temple gate, seeking the enclosed forest, old trees drawn tight together over years. He gradually intuits a path between the dense vegetation without a care as to where he is going. Before long, he hears the sound of bubbling water, its merry tinkle soothing against his abraded nerves. A low gate emerges from the darkness, the moon barely sufficient to illuminate the words carved above the entrance: “Tiger Dreaming Spring.”[7]

This must be the spring Zuko was talking about. It would have served as a source of water for the monks who used to live here. Aang stoops through the gate, finding his way up a set of shallow steps that lead towards a small pool, still and serene. Its rectangular bounds are enclosed within a stone basin, at the head of which is carved a statue of a cheerfully reclining man flanked by two tigers. The inscription below his likeness reads: “Master Daoji of Lingyin Temple,” followed by his dates of birth and death, some two hundred years ago, well before the war.[8]

Here now is some history Aang _can_ recall from air temple preschool. Daoji was something of a rogue monk: he took his vows at Lingyin Temple and was ordained as usual, but after that, he began behaving eccentrically, indulging in meat and wine, failing to keep his attire orderly, and wandering the land helping the poor and needy without regard for his personal pursuit of enlightenment. He was expelled from the temple but nevertheless remained kind of soul and strong of heart, with many stories surrounding his legend.

Aang seats himself at the edge of the pool, across from the statue, and meditates on the sound of bubbling water coming from farther upstream, the source of the spring. Legend has it that he once happened upon a village in danger of imminent destruction by a landslide. The people had not yet realized the danger, but Daoji had flown into the mountains and witnessed the crushing onslaught of the rocks. When he warned the villagers, they laughed and did not believe him, so he resorted to drastic measures. A wedding procession was going on, and Daoji abducted the bride and flew away with her on his glider. The groom and the wedding party ran after him, and soon, the entire village was in pursuit. They ran out past the village gates, and as soon as everyone had evacuated, the landslide came upon them and obliterated everything. Their lives were spared only because of his quick thinking.

“You were the epitome of what _not_ to do as an Air Nomad,” Aang intones to the unhearing statue. “Monk Pasang actually chastised Gyatso when he taught us your legend, saying that he shouldn’t pollute our minds with examples of monks who strayed from the right path. All our lives, we strive to rid ourselves of earthly attachments, yet you embraced them fully.

“What’s more, you understood very well what attachments secured other people to the world.” Aang rises, restless again, and paces around the pool. “If I were in your position, what might I have done? Maybe I would’ve gotten my entire cohort, along with Appa and all our sky bison, and tried to fly the protesting villagers out of there. But you knew that the people would stop at nothing to rescue the abducted bride, because she was what they loved above all—the representation of new life, a new union, an age-old, rapturous, and visceral joy, one that many of us never experienced. How could we help people if we don’t know what they value most?”

 _Daoji did not deny himself the pleasures of the flesh, but ultimately he was a good person,_ Aang reflects. _He didn’t fault the people outside of his monastic order for having earthly attachments either, but rather accepted them and used that knowledge to his advantage in performing acts of service for all._

According to Monk Gyatso, Daoji achieved enlightenment before his death, such that he was at peace with himself and all around him, even the birds and beasts. That would explain the tigers gamboling around him, the supposed patrons of this spring. Daoji was buried here at Tiger Dreaming Spring, near the temple—it’s all coming back to Aang, his lessons of old. Too little, too late?

He sighs and shuffles around the pool, ambling in and out of the edges of the forest as he ponders his situation. A stand of hardy ferns brushes against him, and he idly pulls at a branch, unfurling its long strand and toying with the curled fronds. It bounces back into the same coiled posture when he lets it go.

“Unless you have spent years devoting yourself to releasing your earthly tethers, it’s impossible not to develop attachments. To do so is to be human,” Aang explains to Daoji. “We Air Nomads seek to transcend this humanity, but as the Avatar, I am both human and spirit. I can never achieve this, for the people I serve are human too. My duty to them constitutes my attachment to this earth. My spiritual needs can never be fully met, in that sense.

“Zuko’s no different. He’s human too, despite being suspended in a spirit state. I can guess why he didn’t tell me about the Air Nomads. Maybe he didn’t want me to leave and go off in search of them. He couldn’t be sure if they’re still alive and didn’t want to give me false hope.”

He understands now, crouched between the roots of an old magnolia whose petals litter one corner of the pavilion. Zuko’s only attachments are the tea plantation, watered literally with his blood, sweat, and tears, and Aang himself. He’s loath to cut these tenuous bonds because they are all that tether him to this earth and separate him from the great unknown. It’s only natural that he’d hesitate to tell Aang the truth.

* * *

Aang treads a silent path back to the hall, vowing to bring an offering for Daoji later. The tea in the bowls has cooled, and the steam has disappeared completely, Zuko absent in all but spirit. Aang kneels before the unknown sage, guardian of this temple, and allows his thoughts to merge with the tendrils of energy that lace the sanctuary, threads of days long gone that still haunt this place.

He watches and hears the memories as if they are unfolding around him, the voices of the Air Nomads, a babble frightened and unsure. _Nowhere to hide, nowhere to run, we’re trapped, we’re trapped. What do we do? Where will we go? He says he won’t hurt us, but even so… the rest of the world won’t be so kind. Statues in the alcove, looking down at us, judging us. Undisciplined, unskilled benders, unfit keepers of the traditions, for shame._

 _Don’t be afraid,_ a calm voice cuts through the clamor. _Take what you can, what’s left of value, little as it is. Don’t bother with what your forebears think. You either survive to venerate them once more, or die penniless while their wealth gathers dust here._

The voice falls familiar on Aang’s ears: Zuko’s compassionate cadence, reassuring the Air Nomads that even if they must leave, they should not leave empty-handed. They have their gliders, but if they want to throw off their pursuers, they will need coin for the long haul, for food and lodging, for ship fare to sail away from these islands to the more welcoming Earth Kingdom, where perhaps they can start a new life.

 _Daoji wouldn’t begrudge you these boons,_ Aang thinks, echoing Zuko’s sentiments. _Gold and precious stones meant nothing to him; the livelihood that they would have earned you, my brethren, meant everything to him._

He opens his eyes and exhales deeply. Guru, Zuko should be made an honorary sage. A wave of regret floods Aang’s heart as he remembers his cruel words. Returning to the pot of tea, he rekindles the flame underneath and reheats the water to boiling. He drinks the cold tea first and then refills the bowls with hot water.

“Zuko… I’m so sorry.”

The tea spirit says nothing, but Aang has never seen a more broken expression on Zuko’s face.

“I know you didn’t mean to deceive me. And you helped my fellow Air Nomads at the cost of your own life; that debt can never be repaid. What I said was thoughtless and born of anger, and I hurt you.”

He reaches a hand towards Zuko’s glimmering form, a supplication for forgiveness. Slowly, the steam rearranges itself so that Zuko’s hand envelopes his own, fingers faintly curling around his.

“You asked me before, what I missed the most about being alive. I didn’t answer at the time, but I’ll answer you now. I miss being with the people I love. There were never many to begin with, courtesy of being born into royalty, then spending my time either at war or in exile. So when the chance came, even beyond death, I wasn’t going to shoo you away so quickly.

“But in doing so, I’ve wronged you too. You stayed, but now that you know there are still living Air Nomads, your heart won’t let you tarry. If you want to go find them, you should go. Don’t let a dead man keep you here.”

“I’ll take you with me,” Aang promises. “Where I go, you go. What I see, you see.”

“What if you run out of tea leaves?”

He thumbs through the pouch of leaves kept at his waist, Zuko’s life and soul always close at hand. “Even if I do, you’ll still be waiting here… won’t you?”

An agonizing silence, their hands clasped even though Aang cannot feel a solid grip, can only trust his eyes and his soul to know that their hearts are bared to each other in this moment.

“I’ll wait for you as long as you need me to,” Zuko says. _Forever, if need be._

Oh, Zuko. Aang can’t help the tears that slip forth from his eyes and anoint their hands like watery kisses, falling through Zuko’s incorporeal form and plinking onto the floor.

“Would you like to see the lake as it once looked, before it was depleted?” Zuko cannot cry, cannot experience that crushing relief that only comes through throaty sobs and soul-deep anguish. All he has are his memories, his past life, and hope for the present one that he spends with Aang.

Aang acquiesces, and as Zuko’s memories overlay his own, showing him the West Lake in all its resplendence, he hides one singular thought away in the deepest recesses of his mind.

_I love you. I love you, guru above, how did this come to be?_

* * *

1 Butter tea: the butter tea derived from sky bison's milk is inspired by yak butter tea, a traditional Tibetan drink. It's made with black tea, salt, yak butter, and reaches more of a rich soup-like consistency than typical tea. I have never tried it myself as I'm pretty sure there is nowhere you can get yak butter in this hemisphere xD But it sounds very delicious. Read more about it [here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Butter_tea). [return to text] 

2 I thought it would be ironic to make just one single person lactose intolerant (poor Jinju), in defiance of the many studies and med school curricula that cite up to 95% of Asians becoming lactose intolerant by adulthood… like first of all, what constitutes "Asians"? Did you mean the entirety of the extremely ethnically diverse continent of Asia, or did you just mean East Asians? >.> Also hello, I'm over here drinking milk and eating yogurt like there's no tomorrow, and so are most Asians I know. Idk, I just feel that disease processes taught in med school (in America, that is) about "Asians" is either nonexistent or grossly oversimplified. [return to text] 

3 Basically, the entire city of Zuodu is meant to be a stand-in for Hangzhou, the capital of Zhejiang, where the Longjing tea strain is produced. West Lake (西湖）is a scenic lake in Hangzhou, with many famous natural and historic sites surrounding it, some of which will be touched on in this fic. I've never been; my parents have, but I hate going on vacation, especially with them, so I didn’t go. [return to text] 

4 Gao Sheng: I'm honestly not sure what the political structure of Zuodu is; if there's a mayor or other magisterial seat, or if Gao Sheng is the highest power there is. If he is, then I don’t know why he's personally running around trying to arrest street vendors without a license; he should just have his lackeys do the legwork. If he's not, then maybe he's just the highest martial power in the city, but has to report to a higher civilian authority? I don’t know. It's not really important; it's just the kind of thing you start wondering after watching too many period dramas with questionable hierarchies and logistics. [return to text] 

5 Draining the lake: I don’t know enough about environmental engineering or whatever to evaluate whether it's feasible for the Fire army to drain the lake into the river to make it deep enough to sail their ships down, or if it even makes sense for the ships to be built inland and then float to the sea. *throws hands up in despair* oh well. Historically, the real West Lake had dried up and been dredged and restored multiple times for various natural and manmade reasons, but I'm not going to get into all that. [return to text] 

6 Lingyin Temple: 靈隱寺，or Temple of the Soul's Retreat. Founded by one Monk Huili, a Buddhist monk from India, in the 4th century. The descriptions in this chapter aren't based on any specific sites in the temple itself, but it is deeply hidden in the mountains west of West Lake. Read more [here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lingyin_Temple). I also really liked this [aerial image](https://lingyinsi.org/files/image/info/2015/07/2010164526470971.jpg) of the whole temple complex, from the official Chinese website, lingyinsi.org. [return to text]

7 Tiger Dreaming Spring: 虎跑夢泉, can also be rendered as Dreaming of Tiger Running Spring. A natural spring south of West Lake, said to be discovered by a monk in a dream where two tigers dug it out of the earth and unearthed the pure water. Pictures [here](https://www.triptipedia.com/tip/IHOfT59/exploring-hangzhou-dreaming-of-the-tiger-spring). [return to text]

8 Daoji: 道濟禪師, the Chan (Buddhist) Master Daoji was as described in the chapter, an eccentric monk who lived a life of wild abandon, but nevertheless helped people selflessly wherever he encountered those in need. Many examples of him / characters inspired by him exist throughout classical and modern Chinese media, the archetypal rogue monk. He was buried at Tiger Dreaming Spring, but the statue of a dreaming monk lying between two tigers in the pictures above is not him; it is actually Monk Xikong who is said to have discovered the spring. Read more [here](https://www.ancientpages.com/2016/01/31/ji-gong-legendary-ancient-monk-who-defended-people-against-injustice/). [return to text] 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! Please leave a comment if you liked it, and find me on Tumblr if you want to talk more @the-cloud-whisperer.
> 
> Here is a map of West Lake and the various attractions around it, some of which are mentioned in this fic.  
> 


End file.
